


Embers

by TempestuousJones



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, M/M, Mental Anguish, Pining, Post-Case, Romanticism, Voyeurism, kinda shmoopy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 12:50:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11148783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempestuousJones/pseuds/TempestuousJones
Summary: WARNING for some coarse language, a do-it-yourself beta, and a rather heavy handed romantic metaphor. If that's within your tolerances, proceed:)THE case had been awful, one of their very worst.  The press, fuck em' all, had glamorized the UnSub with the sobriquet 'Botticelli’s Apprentice'. All male victims, all attractive, androgynous, wavy or curly hair, and Rossi *had* to mention they looked like Reid.  And then Hotch couldn't stop seeing Reid every time he looked at a victim.  (Thanks, Dave. Thanks a lot.) And then he couldn't stop looking at Reid.  Hotch started to rub his eyes more than usual.





	Embers

EMBERS

 

THE case had been awful, one of their very worst.  The press, fuck em' all, had glamorized the UnSub with the sobriquet 'Botticelli’s Apprentice'. All male victims, all attractive, androgynous, wavy or curly hair, and Rossi *had* to mention they looked like Reid.  And then Hotch couldn't stop seeing Reid every time he looked at a victim.  (Thanks, Dave. Thanks a lot.) And then he couldn't stop looking at Reid.  Hotch started to rub his eyes more than usual.

The bodies--what was left of them--and the *faces*, Hotch wouldn't say they were *untouched*, far from it, they had been painted over in oils, not to disguise or disfigure, but to emphasize and amplify their natural beauty.  And that just seemed worse somehow, to take something beautiful and alive and take possession, claim ownership, take credit for something they had no right to.

And it got *worse*. The victims were getting progressively younger, and the last one was only a few years older than Jack, 14 or 15...

And then to add to his Reid-watching, which was probably as overt and obvious now as it used to be-- (back before Dave, who, on virtually his first fucking day back, had noticed and teased him, so Hotch had stomped it down, like embers, trying not to think of his father, who didn't tease but still made his disapproval perfectly clear)-- he couldn't stop checking his cell phone, cradling it in his hands like the most precious of all things, looking at pictures of Jack. He was very privately and quietly losing his shit (perhaps not so privately; "Hotch, you OK?" not once, not twice, but three times, from Morgan, Rossi, and Prentiss), and probably should have stepped back.  But it never worked out that way with him or anyone else on the team; why start now?

And the take-down, when it happened, had been ugly, too, with a hail of shots fired from FBI and LEO, suicide by cop.  And every. Single.  Bullet. From an FBI fire arm had a separate form that needed to be filed for each and every fucking one. When they got home, Hotch would not be able to escape this case by sheer dint of the damn paperwork. 

And he would not be in any mental condition to go home to Jack, with the victims so fresh in his mind, and be able to touch his son, not while feeling sullied and tainted by this.  He texted Jessica to ask her to keep Jack another night.  He just didn't feel human right now.

On the plane ride home Hotch tried to pick at the forms, but, wired, tired, and distractible, he openly indulged his Spencer-watching habit instead.  Reid was tucked into a seat across from him, his elegant hands sweeping over the pages of an actual *book*, one hand darting up to tuck errant hair behind his ear (after Hotch had physically halted himself from reaching over to do it himself, an odd, abrupt, aborted move with his hand that left it recoiling somewhere near his shoulder).  Hotch desperately wanted to *hear* the sound of Reid’s fingers whispering over the paper (which quickly morphed into the imagined sensation of fingers sweeping over skin-- embers he stomped out before they could catch), but there was too much noise on the plane from the engines and the forced air and occasional talking, and with his hearing damage he probably wouldn't be able to hear a sound that soft anyway, even when it was quiet. It made him sad.

A micro expression-- maybe-- flashed on Reid's face, an almost-frown, a briefest twisting of lips that could have meant his nose itched. And then it was gone.

When the book was finished, Reid stretched out his long legs across the row between Hotch and the rest of the team, like a barrier between the two of them and everything else.  Even if it probably didn’t mean anything, Hotch felt protected a little. Sheltered. Reid closed his eyes and tilted his head back, resting (exposing his long, elegant neck). And Hotch looked, under the guise of turning his head to look out the window, out the corner of his eye (like that one time, at that other boy on the football field, and his father caught him), and back a few moments later, shuffling through papers, peeking over their edges, and Reid just sat there, eyes closed (but not sleeping), stretched out, almost as if he knew Hotch was looking, was letting him look, but that just couldn’t be. 

Reid was so still and peaceful. He wondered how close he could lean forward before he could feel Reid’s body heat radiating from him (without falling out of his own chair). Hotch decided he liked it better when Reid would sit right next to him, and he could lean, only a little, not even touching, and feel his warmth (another ember, stamped out).

God, he was so fucking tired.

 

They landed midday, and Hitch gave the team the rest of the day off.  They needed time to sort themselves out, reconnect, heal, as much as they could, when they could, before the next UnSub, and the one after that. He should take his own advice, he thought as he watched Rossi, in full caretaker mode, herd the others together to take them to his home and feed them mountains of homemade pasta and Italian wine, and long funny stories about anything they could think of that wasn’t serial killers.  He watched JJ call will to invite him and Henry, envying that she felt human enough to do that now; he couldn’t, not right now, not yet.

He politely made his excuses: case paperwork, bullet reports, phone calls to HR. He turned to walk away from them, and thought out of the edge of his vision he saw Reid watch, over his shoulder, maybe, watch him pull away.

 

In his office, the blinds drawn, the paper in a neat stack on his desk, he was a man lost in time and space. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there (it was still light out, it couldn’t have been too long, could it? Or had night been and gone and daylight back again?); he couldn’t find the energy, or the focus, to simply *go home* (to his empty apartment) and he could not, absolutely could not, face his son with his mind and heart and spirit still in the dark place where they were right now. 

Someone cleared their throat.

Startled, abruptly yanked from his retreat from ‘Here’ and ‘Now’, Hotch looked up to see Reid, long, lanky form leaning in the doorway, a steaming cup in each hand, the smell of coffee from one and tea from the other, surrounding him like a halo. Reid looked down at him, something warm and soft in his gaze, then a determined edge, a decision being made.

 

Not a word was said by either of them as Reid moved slowly to the desk, stretched the arm with the tea across to Hotch, placed it on the desk, and settled back in the chair across from him, Hotch’s gaze tracking everything from the tag on the tea bag dangling over the edge of the cup, over Reid’s fingers, his hand, his long slender arm, his angular shoulders, up his neck (and God he was being so obvious now, Reid would be well within his rights to file a report, or at least punch him)…It was like a spell had been cast. He watched Reid stretched out in the opposite chair, vintage clothing rumpled and soft, coffee in hand, eyes soft, hair a disarrayed cloud of soft brown waves (that word ‘soft’ again) and Reid didn’t say anything, which was a marvel in itself, as if he was *letting him look*…

After a long luxurious moment of silent watching, Reid stretched forward, took Hotch’s hand in his own strong, soft, warm one, untangled a pen from his fingers and wrapped them around the tea mug Hotch had already forgotten about. Hotch was not sure which was warmer (like an ember) and watched their hands, transfixed, until Reid pulled away.  Hotch took the hint and sipped from the mug, feeling his nerves, from his nose (the aroma) his mouth (warmth touching his lips, sliding over his tongue and down his throat)- -and why did this sip of tea feel so much like a kiss?--his hand (the hot cup, and the fleeting warmth of fingers whispering over his skin, he knew what that felt like now--  an ember, stamped out), reenergizing  and reconnecting his body to his mind, and it was like a switch was hit.  He took a deeper drink and actually groaned *out loud* and felt a little more human now, especially when he caught a smile quirk on Reid’s lips.

Then the spell broke. Reid pursed his lips. Pausing. Then his tongue darted out to moisten his lips (and Hotch could not *not* watch) and he spoke.

“So. You, ah, might want to throw me out after what I’m going to tell you. I know we aren’t, ah,  supposed to profile each other, but, everybody on the team does it to everybody on the team all the time, and, uh, well, there are statistics about coworkers- -“

“Reid,” a warning, growled half-heartedly over another sip of tea, wonderful tea, and he couldn’t stay too irritated at Reid’s aborted attempt at a ramble, because he brought him tea (and touched his hand).

“Let me start over. Hear me out. I know you watch me, sometimes. And I think I know why.”

And this is not quite what he was expecting Reid to say (but if pressed he wasn’t sure what he expected, really, this whole day had felt so surreal).

After another lick of the lips, he continued. “You did it a lot in the early years when you and I were more like partners and Morgan and I weren’t really friends yet and Gideon hadn’t left yet. And then he did and you had to be the Boss more- -

“Reid,” he tried to interrupt, stop the rambling before Reid could get a second breath, before this conversation went somewhere he wasn’t sure he could bear, not when he was this exhausted and fragile.

“--and distance yourself from the rest of us, and me, and you had a very young child, and you and Haley started fighting more, and Rossi came back and I think he caught you looking and said something--”

“*Reid*.”

“And then the divorce, and Foyet, and you distanced yourself even more after that, but sometimes, *sometimes*, especially when you were tired or feeling isolated - - lonely, maybe, even?--you still looked at me, when you didn’t think I would notice, but I did.” And finally he took a breath. Fidgeted with his hands.

“Reid”, devastated inside, suddenly unable to make eye contact, he turned his face away and down, took and released a deep breath before continuing, “You are right. And I formally apologize- -“ ( _I’m sorry!)_

“What? Hotch, it’s okay, I know- -“

“It won’t happen again - -“ ( _I’m sorry! I won’t do it again! I PROMISE!)_

What? No, Hotch, no, that’s not what - -“

“If you feel more comfortable with Rossi as your direct report and evaluator- -“

“*Hotch*!”

“-- that would be a simple matter with HR and I won’t contest it- -“

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.  I want to resurrect your father just so I can kill him myself.”

“- - and if you wish to file a complaint with HR you are well within your rights as an employee and I won’t contest that either- -“

“*Aaron*.” Not Hotch this time, but *Aaron*, growled a good octave lower, from deeper down in that long slender throat, and Hotch stopped cold, startled by it, and was even less prepared when Reid came around the desk, into his personal space, and pressed soft, warm fingers against Hotch’s lips, so warm (like embers).

“Aaron. As I was saying, I know you look at me, and I think I know why. And it’s OK. I don’t mind.” He moved his fingers from Hotch’s mouth, but not away, sliding them to his cheekbone, caressing down to his jaw, the touch *so warm*.

(Like an ember)

“I, ah. Um. I. I like it. That you look.  I sit as close to you on the plane as I can just so you *can* look. That’s not too creepy of me, is it? I don’t mean that to sound creepy.”

(But not stamped out--)

“I think it makes you feel good to watch me, that it gives you some kind of comfort. I- - I really like that you turn to me for that comfort. “

(Not stamped out, but caught in the air- - )

“You should know, if you don’t, that I, ah, I like to watch you, too,” and he drew his hand away to fidget nervously.  Then *put it back*. “I think you’re handsome. I love your voice.  And you frown too much. You have 27 varieties of frown. I’ve seen only 2 kinds of smile. And I’ve heard you laugh exactly once. You don’t smile or laugh enough. “

“Reid- - *Spencer*- - “His voice crumbled around new and old pain, and an ancient loneliness. He could not move away, he could not move forward, could only stand there, his body trembling just a little, captured under that barely-there touch.

 (Instead held aloft, by the gentlest of breezes)

“Aaron. It’s OK. It’s all OK.”

(Like a sigh)

And then, a hopeful, determined expression set on Reid’s face, and he leaned forward and graced him with the softest of kisses, kind and gentle and sweet (literally so, all coffee and too much sugar), and *so certain* and warm so very warm.

(And breathes it to life)

Spencer (and it was *Spencer* now, it *couldn’t* be ‘Reid’ any more) pulled away from the kiss, but not away from him, and Hotch stood there, silently basking in his nearness and warmth (and his vocabulary seemed to have narrowed to two words today, ‘soft’ and ‘warm’, the most important qualities in the world now).

And Spencer spoke again, a bare whisper against his mouth, “It’s OK Aaron. It really is all OK.” And they met each other half way this time, another kiss that was all acceptance and comfort and hope, and warmth. So much warmth.

(An ember, stoked to a flame)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
